Wishing on Dying Weeds
by 21st Century Gwaine
Summary: When Sam was little, Dean taught him that you could make wishes on dandelions. He remembered that, even as he went off to Stanford and even as he returned to Hunting. Sometimes he even had to remind his older brother of it. He only forgot about the little puffs once in his life, when he'd hit a particularly low point. And his brother was right there to teach him all over again.
1. They're Wishes

"Here." Sam looked up from where he sat, plucking at the blades of grass that were taller than the others. He had to blink his eyes a few times to adjust them to the new levels of sunlight, and soon what the other boy was holding in his hand came into focus; a dandelion. The curly-haired toddler made a face- the beginnings of what would later be given an affectionate title- and tilted his head just a bit.

"What?" he asked his older brother, who was extending the puffball to him carefully between two fingers. Dean sat down beside him, the little boy's gaze held on him as he crossed his legs and held the flower between them.

"You make wishes with them," he explained, looking at it with interest. "That's what one of the girls at school told me."

"Wishes?" The round, off-set blue eyes of the younger child focused in on the weed, the entirety of it suddenly seeming magical. The little wisps on the end of the stem reminded him of a cloud, like the one Dean said Mommy lived on.

"Yeah. You're supposed to blow on it, and think really really hard about what your wish is," his brother explained, a smile pulling at the corner of his lips. In the sunlight the seven-year-old seemed almost thirty, the gleam in his eyes showing grief for the innocence he knew his brother would soon lose. Underneath his shirt hid injuries old and new of origins he'd lost track of, most from Hunts, a few from normal boyish activities, and a certain couple- forming a distinct print around his left bicep- a reminder that if he _ever_ left Sammy alone like that again...

"I make a wishes?" Sam asked, reaching out a chubby hand and flexing his fingers in and out a couple of times. Dean gave a gentle and exhausted chuckle, and as he lifted his chin the darkness under his eyes could be mistaken as shadows cast from his eyelashes.

"Why else would I get it for you?" The kid looked at him quizzically; sometimes he forgot how young his brother actually was. "Yes, you can."

Sam gave a laugh of delight, taking the dandelion and glancing over it some more. He didn't say anything for a moment, just stared at the little plant with such focus that it could have caught flame. His elder brother chuckled, furrowing his eyebrows.

"What're you doin', Sammy?" he inquired, observing him. The toddler huffed, looking over at the other boy.

"I can' think an' blow at the same time!" he pouted, snapping his eyes back to the object of his frustration. Dean smiled affectionately, sighing with amusement, and reached out to help steady his brother's hand.

"Okay, I'll help you. Think about your wish-" Sam closed his eyes tightly, pursing his lips together; "-and, ready..."

Both of them blew out, one (hint, the three-year-old) more forcefully than the other. The seeds fluttered out in front of them as the little boy opened his eyes, and he let out a squeal of delight as the breeze caught them and carried them off, some landing on the lawn before them, others drifting as far as the broken car Bobby was helping their dad to fix.

"I made a wishes! I made a wishes!" Sam proclaimed excitably, clapping his hands and looking at Dean with the green stalk still in his grasp. "I made a wishes f-"

"You can't tell me!" he cut in, waving his hands in the way an umpire would whilst calling a player as 'out'. The toddler stared at him, and suddenly his energetic grin turned sad. Well... "Okay. Fine. What did you wish?"

The smile sprang right back onto his face. "I wish that you're my big brother forever!"

The older Winchester boy could feel himself melt, and he reached out to ruffle the boy's hair. "I will be, don't you worry Sammy."

"Dean!" He looked up at hearing his name, seeing his father wiping black grease from his hands onto a dirtied and faded orange rag, and looking out to his sons. John waved a hand, motioning for him to come.

"C'mon, Sam," he said, helping his brother onto his feet. The toddler searched for any last floating dandelion pods- to his disappointment, they had all settled- before following Dean, going to the black muscle car they'd taken to as their home.

"Y'all take care," said Bobby, watching as John put his youngest boy into his car seat and closed the door.

"Thanks again," he nodded to his friend with a smile, getting into the driver's seat. Dean moved to skirt around the car and get into the back seat beside Sam, but the mechanic put a hand on his shoulder to stop him. He looked up to find a proud smile and a tinge of sympathy underneath the brim of a baseball cap.

"You take care of yourself boy," he said, patting him on the back before taking a step backwards. Dean grinned softly in response and gave a nod, then went to get into the car as he heard the purr of the engine start up.

They'd hardly driven more than a few miles when Sam fell asleep, hand still wrapped around the flower shaft where he had it held against his chest protectively. Of all things he could have wished for... The thought brought a slight smirk to Dean's face, and he turned his head to rest it against the door of the car. He lazily watched scenery pass, vaguely hearing the scores of whatever baseball team his dad was tracking come from an enthusiastic radio host, his eyes growing heavy as sleep called to him. They passed fields of yellowed grass and landscapes that rose and fell with mountains and plateaus, rivers with a few ranch mens' horses drinking at their bays, but Dean only noted one thing; the patches of tall, proud dandelion puffs that littered the ground ever so often.


	2. They're Promises

"Sammy, Sa- _Sam!_" He finally stopped beating the shit out of his backpack, looked up at his elder brother with a hurt sort of rage on his face. Dean felt his heart break a little when he saw mist in the kid's eyes. It took him a moment to shake it off, then motion for Sam to come join him at the table. There was a soft scrape of wooden legs against stone tiles as they both took a chair, and as soon as they sat the younger boy near melted, shoulders collapsing and his face falling into weakly held hands. Silence. More silence. A muffled scream of anger from Sam before he crossed his arms on the table and hid his face completely. "Sammy... What the hell happened?"

It was a long time before he spoke again, and when he did it was through the material of his jacket sleeve, which he had clamped between his teeth where he still concealed himself. "I didn't ask to be a _freak_."

Dean's blood froze for a second before flowing once more. "Whuddo you mean?"

Suddenly blue-gray eyes were glaring at him from across the cheap wooden surface, seemingly red. There was no way that an eight-year-old should ever be so enraged about anything, should have cause to be. "THEY FOLLOWED ME, DEAN!"

It took nearly three hours to calm him down and have him explain: He was walking back to the motel from school- and Dean wasn't with him because he'd been on bed rest ever since he'd been knocked out by a ghost on the last Hunt, which had left him with a concussion and a cracked rib. A group of boys had happened to be walking the same way as him, but when they noticed him walking past the residential area of the town they began calling out to him, asking where he was going. After Sam unwisely responded with "home", the boys had suddenly turned aggressive, and begun to shout insults and throw out assumptions, at one point suggesting Sam was an orphan (which struck a nerve with him). They followed him almost all the way back, shouting at him, asking where his mommy or daddy was, asking where he was going, and by the time Sam got to the motel and slammed the door behind him, they all were running. It was this very loud slam that Dean had woken up to, and he was grateful that his concussion was almost gone, because the headache he got from it could have been much worse otherwise.

"It's okay," Dean said, his voice cracking a little as he gazed at his brother with wide eyes. The words were full of shock, and for good reason. Since when had Sam broken so easily?

"No, no it isn't," the kid replied, eyes heavy but tear supply diminished. "What if Dad doesn't come back one time?"

It clicked into place then. The boys had brought things up that Sam had chosen not to face, that both brothers had decided not to face, and now they had to. Dean felt like he was buzzing, his whole body vibrating, and eventually he stood up. Sam watched him curiously until he was motioned to follow, and they ended up taking a walk down the street to a barren gas station market, where Dean payed for two candy bars and a fountain soda to share with some crumpled bills from his pockets. They sat just on the outer reach of a circle of illumination cast from one of the streetlights near the squat building, eating and drinking in near silence.

"No matter what, I'll be here, okay?" The elder Winchester said suddenly, examining his half-eaten chocolate with more interest than it deserved. After a moment he turned his attention to his brother, who was watching him with a sort of longing.

"You promise?" he said softly. Dean nodded a little in thought, then darted out his hand, which returned back into their view with a small stem clasped in his fingers.

"I swear on this thing," he said, the puff already losing a few seeds due to the breeze.

"I thought those were for wishes," Sam pointed out, an unexpected quirk of amusement pulling at the corner of his lips. A car passed by, the lights flashing over them for a moment before roaring away into the night again. It was dark, sleek, black- for just a moment the boys followed it with their gazes. They knew well that it wasn't the 1967 Chevy brand car they were hoping it was, but still they looked. It was in this rare type of instance that false hope was better than no hope at all.

After a short span of shared disappointment, Dean reverted back to the matter, shifting to face Sam more. He gave a small sigh, looking at the object he'd just plucked from where it had grown in a crack in the pavement. They were stupid, they'd always been stupid, but still the little plant made him feel like he had some control over something, like he had a say. He knew that Sam felt the same way, and that was why the dumb things held such a genuine status in their minds. It wasn't a game to them, like most children. It was real, and the reason it was real was to contradict the reality of their lives that should have only been in scary stories.

"They're promises now too, okay?" he said, staring at his brother with grim seriousness to his eye. Sam's smile fell away, and he watched on with expectation. Dean turned away, and closed his eyes.

"I swear to protect my little brother no matter what, always," he said with definition, and then he audibly blew out. The white tuft dispersed through the air, carried through the light and then out of it, floated into the dark. Dean turned back with a sad smile, his youth gone. "I mean it."


End file.
